


Under the Flight Path

by Starlithorizon



Series: In the Sun [2]
Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cabinlock, Case Fic, Female Sherlock Holmes, Femlock, Gen, Sherlock and John are still bros even when Sherlock's a woman, everything is brilliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-09 15:26:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlithorizon/pseuds/Starlithorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John spend a few days in the small town of Fitton. The MJN crew is shocked to discover that their very own captain is one of her cultivated experts. They're even more shocked to learn that he will be helping her to solve a mystery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Tossing my hat into the Cabinlock ring. This isn't my first one (that would be Yin, Yang, and Everything In Between), but it feels like it. I'm also playing with female!Sherlock a bit more, and dabbling in a proper case fic. Ambitions are everywhere!  
> Please be well aware that, like all of my fics, this is un-beta'd, un-Brit-picked, and poorly researched with the only-mostly-helpful use of the internet. There's a roughly 80% chance this will all be pure nonsense.  
> We're all cool with this, though, right?  
> You know we are.

Sherlock had a real distaste for cases that took her out of her city. Of course, that feeling was _really_ just a pervasive sort of homesickness, but she wouldn't deign to give it such a _pedestrian_ title as that. No, she just hated leaving London without her protection, feeling a bit like a guard sent away and unable to do her job. Regardless of anything else, London was _her_ city, and it was continually a battlefield. She was most comfortable when on the frontlines of the battle, the one between knowledge and ignorance.

Though, come on, let's call it what it was, what she wouldn't _ever_ refer to it as: a battle between good and evil. The motives and perpetrators weren't always evil, but their actions certainly were. But, no, this was Sherlock Holmes, and she wouldn't ever admit to caring about the justice of the thing, just the neat wrapping-up of a puzzle.

This current puzzle found her sitting on a train beside John, drumming her fingers against the armrest of her seat in impatience. They were headed to some minuscule little town near Birmingham to properly consult with one of her cultivated experts.

The town—Fitton—wasn't particularly far from London, but she vastly preferred taking the train for such long distances. Cars didn't provide such great deduction fodder.

"That one," she murmured to John, pointing quite subtly with her tapping index finger. "There."

He scanned the woman she'd pointed out, taking in details as he'd learned, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration.

"She's an artist," he said in a low voice. "Or at least a very dedicated hobbyist. She has random little smudges of graphite on her hands, one on her jaw, that she would have minded more if she wasn't used to it. Uh, she has a cat, longhair, it's shed all over her jumper. Recently divorced, there's a tan line where the ring used to be, but she's not that unhappy about it."

Sherlock smiled and praised him before pointing out other details he'd missed about the middle-aged woman, like the fact that she was returning home rather than leaving it and on and on, their quiet game uncovering the truths of a good portion of the car.

Eventually, they made it to Fitton and alighted, Sherlock immediately hailing a cab. While this town was by no means bustling, there were a handful of cabs loitering around the station, and they were drawn to her upraised hand like ungainly moths to a flame. She climbed into the first one that stopped, rattling off the address as John deposited the luggage in the boot. A moment later, and they were off.

* * *

"So, what, exactly, are we doing here?" John asked midway through their journey to the airfield. Sherlock glanced at him for a moment before returning her attention to her phone.

"I met a pilot a few years ago in Heathrow," she said, fingers tapping out missives. "He'd gotten lost, and I'd helped him find his way to his hotel—oh, don't look at me that way, I _do_ sometimes do things like that! Anyway, he spent the whole walk talking about aeroplanes. I mean the _whole_ walk. I've met pilots with more knowledge about aircraft than strictly necessary, but this was something else. Positively _fanatical_. He's since proven to be quite a bit more useful than Google in that he is both more accurate and occasionally more expedient. I've never met anyone so willing to be woken at three in the morning for a question about altimeters!"

While he certainly wasn't the most adept conversationalist, Captain Martin Crieff was useful, and this week, he was helping her to solve a murder.

* * *

When they arrived at Fitton Airfield, John was struck by just how _small_ it was. Only one company consistently operated out of it, a tiny charter airline called MJN Air, quite the strange collection of people in John's opinion. At least, that was how Sherlock's explanations made them seem.

"Have you ever actually _met_ any of the others?" John asked as a very large man named Dirk led them to the MJN office.

"No, just the captain," she replied. "Usually, we meet up at Heathrow and I use Mycroft's name to open a few doors, and we both head out on our own respective ways. This week, he was unable to make it, so I decided to meet him here."

There was a long pause, filled only by their footsteps.

"Do you fancy him?"

"Oh, _God_ , no."

"But you're being so... _considerate_."

Sherlock snorted at that, far less than delicately.

"Trust me, _considerate_ where this man is concerned is concentrated saintliness. You'd be proud, John. In fact, I'm not entirely unconvinced that your _goodness_ hasn't rubbed off on me somehow."

Before John could retort, they found themselves in MJN's office. It was little more than a Portakabin with a corner closeted off with cubicle walls to serve as an office in its own right, likely the CEO's. There were two desks, each facing the other, clearly belonging to Martin and his first officer. What was his name? It began with a D...

"Douglas!" came the familiar voice, snapping out a rebuke and sounding more like a whine. "You can't— Oh."

She smiled as winningly as she was able, and considering that she was Sherlock Holmes, she was _quite_ able.

"Hello, Captain Crieff."

"Miss Holmes. I, I wasn't expecting... Is something wrong?"

"Why would her presence mean that something was wrong?" drawled Douglas, the first officer. He was tall and suave in a way that seemed thinly false but somehow worked. He smiled charmingly. "Douglas Richardson, how do you do?"

"Sherlock Holmes," she said. "This is my colleague, Doctor John Watson."

"She's a detective," Martin explained to his coworker. His subordinate, funnily enough. He turned to stare at her, eyes a bit wide and frantic. "They're from London, and I can only imagine that the only reason they'd come here is because of a case."

Sherlock smiled benevolently at the ginger man.

"Very good, Captain. Once again, you've proven your worth. I need your help in solving it, as there's a particular _aeronautic_ bent to this one."

"Wait, _what_?" Douglas said, eyes popping out. At that precise moment, the door to the office swung open and an older woman walked in, trailed closely by a tall man with a very bright smile. Said cheerful man stopped dead in his tracks upon noticing the detective and her blogger, mouth dropping open in an O.

"You're—"

"Not _this_ again," John groaned under his breath.

"You're Sherlock Holmes and John Watson!" the tall man shouted. " _Brilliant_!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favourite Cabinlock thing is when Arthur is a major fan of Sherlock and John.  
> Expect a deerstalker soon.


	2. Chapter 2

"You're _the_ Sherlock Holmes?" Douglas asked, raising an eyebrow. "The one who faked her death to save her friends? The one who took down that criminal?"

John was prepared to defend his best friend, but Martin jumped in before anything else could be said.

"Yes, yes, she's _the_ Sherlock Holmes, and she came here for a reason, and it's probably really, really important, right?"

"You're two for two, Captain," she said with a smile. Martin flushed and grinned.

"Would you like some tea?"

"Oh, let me get it for you, Miss Holmes!" cried the other, tall man. She supposed this was the Arthur she had been told about, and that the woman glowering to the side was Carolyn.

"Three sugars," she said before moving to the immaculate desk and sitting down. The chair squeaked in protest, a testament to its age and cheap quality. Martin sat on the edge of the desk, crossing his arms over his chest in a show of nonchalance, but only managing to look wildly uncomfortable. John, Douglas, and Carolyn wandered over to where Arthur was making tea and practically vibrating with his excitement.

"Are they...?" Douglas murmured once they were well enough out of earshot.

"She says not," John answered. "Vehemently."

"John, are you going to gossip or _assist_?" came his partner's imperious order. The good doctor was torn between grimacing and smiling as he went and stood beside the detective.

"You know, I could have gone into the clinic today," he pointed out. "I _chose_ to come with you."

"Irrelevant," she snapped, going into full-blown Work Mode. "John's had a look at the victims and given me his opinion as a doctor. That opinion is that they were all dead before impact."

"What does that even _mean_?" Martin asked, frowning at Sherlock. John sighed. Had she really not told him what the case was about?

"Ah, right. Sorry. On Tuesday morning, a small eight-seat aeroplane simply dropped out of the sky over Essex. The plane was destroyed upon impact, _but_ all six victims had died _before_ impact. I need you to help me figure out what caused the plane to malfunction, and possibly how the victims were killed. There was no sign of violence, no trauma but that caused by the crash itself, but it's become apparent that that was not the cause of death for a single one of them."

"What do you think it was?" Douglas asked, joining the group around the desk. Arthur appeared a moment later, wordlessly handing Sherlock a mug with a yellow car on it. She took a long sip before setting it down.

"The oxygen masks had dropped when cabin pressure was lost, and each victim had one on. We can assume that they did not die via oxygen deprivation, though I haven't eliminated the possibility yet. They showed signs of asphyxiation, despite the masks."

"She thinks they were poisoned," John said. "And so do I."

"P-poisoned? But _how_?"

"That is precisely what I would like you to help me with."

* * *

"How do you know Skip?" Arthur asked shortly after Martin and Douglas had left to get lunch at John's insistence. He'd gone with them, and so had Sherlock's card.

"I met him a few years ago, and he's proven to be an invaluable resource when it comes to aircraft," she said a bit distantly.

Had she been the Sherlock of a few years ago, the one who had yet to realise the full breadth of her friend's love, or one who had yet to realise the full breadth of _her_ love for him, and Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson, she would have snapped at the man. She was sort of grateful for his presence, though. She and John still faced vicious reporters and sharp passers-by. She was an expert at brushing them aside, but she had forgotten how _nice_ it was to receive adulation from someone other than John.

"So he's, like, your plane guy," Arthur said. She smiled.

"That is an apt way of putting it."

"But you're Sherlock Holmes," said the other woman, arching a brow. "I thought you were meant to know everything."

"Even my mind is limited, Ms Knapp-Shappey. Why waste precious space when I have an eager and willing expert in the field?"

"And Skip's one of your experts," Arthur clarified.

"Exactly."

"That's brilliant! If you ever need an expert about Egypt or polar bears or Timbuktu or crazy golf, you know where to find me."

"That could prove to be a _dreadful_ idea," Carolyn said dryly. Sherlock smirked.

"Almost definitely."

* * *

Shortly after the others had returned and eaten and witnessed John trying to ply Sherlock with food ("Seriously, three bites." "That would be three bites too many." "Sherlock..." "It will only slow me down!" "Your transport needs fuel." "Two bites." "Four, or I'm going to tell Mrs Hudson to take your skull again."), Sherlock and Martin repaired to Carolyn's office where he could talk planes and she could talk corpses.

"I hope she was all right while I was gone," John said quietly. "I know that people tend to find her a bit difficult."

"Oh, no, she's been perfectly charming," Carolyn said.

"Yeah, she's great! She's even more brilliant than Miss Marple!"

"Good to hear," John chuckled. "Though don't let her know that. I don't think I can handle her ego getting any bigger."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you know what I know about planes and stuff? Nearly nothing. Seriously.

"Mum, can Miss Holmes and Doctor Watson come to our house for dinner?" Arthur pleaded as everyone gathered their things and prepared to leave. " _Please_?"

"Sorry, Arthur, but we're heading straight to the hotel. Sherlock doesn't eat much while on the case. She says digesting slows her down. But thanks for the offer." John grinned at the steward and his mother and trailed after Sherlock as she left the Portakabin.

"John, you could have gone to dinner with them," she said glancing at the small crew that was staring at them. "I certainly can make it to the hotel on my own."

"Yeah, well, I'm your assistant, I'm going to help you with the case. The sooner we wrap it up, the sooner we can get some food."

"I will never understand your preoccupation with food," she griped as they got into the cab waiting for them at the airfield gate.

"Says the woman who can eat four times her body weight in Chinese after a case."

They grinned at each other as the cab sped off.

* * *

Sherlock stalked in front of the wall that was plastered in images, glaring at it as though it had personally offended her. Red string wound between and around tacks, visually connecting the thoughts. Each of the eight victims stared out at her as she paced before them, grumbling under her breath about the threads that just _wouldn't_ connect. How had they died, and _why_? The masks had fallen and been applied, and it appeared that they had been functional—she had heard one of the pilots comment on it on the black box recording.

It wasn't adding up, it didn't make _sense_. Hopefully, Martin would be able to help her the next day, but for now, it was three in the morning, and she was pacing furiously in front of the wall, muttering to herself.

"Sherlock?" John groaned from under the blankets on his bed. She stilled and looked at him.

"Yes, John?"

"Shut up and just go the fuck to sleep."

She smirked despite herself. "Is that really any way to speak to a lady, John?"

"I will throw something, I swear I will."

"I thought you were a doctor? 'Do no harm.'"

"Yeah, well, I have my bad days."

She laughed quietly and turned out the light, stretching out on her own bed to descend into her mind palace.

* * *

Martin was already in the Portakabin the next morning, looking quite thoughtful, when Sherlock and John arrived. He looked up at their entrance and smiled a bit in greeting.

"Right, so, I've been thinking," he started. "About, about the passengers being poisoned."

"Have you got an idea?" John asked. Sherlock took the opportunity to take Martin's chair.

"Um, yeah, one. I think. You said that they all had exhibited signs of carbon monoxide poisoning, right? Well, I think that someone tampered with the gaseous manifold system. If the pilots were killed the same way, then it wasn't the chemical oxygen generator—there's a separate system for the pilots. If it had been that, then it's likely that they wouldn't have died."

"Oh, clever, _clever_ ," Sherlock said, beaming at Martin like he was a particularly bright student. He flushed and shrugged, barely containing his grin.

"Well, I figured it was that or the recirculated air, but that wouldn't have worked. How long does it take to die via carbon monoxide poisoning?"

"Depends," Sherlock said. "If the concentration is low enough, one can live their entire life while slowly being poisoned with it. If it's high enough, less than three minutes."

"So you're thinking that the plane somehow malfunctioned, lost cabin pressure, deployed toxic oxygen masks, killed the pilots, and crashed because there were no living people to control it," John said.

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm thinking," she said, voice going low and thoughtful.

"You said that the crash was attributed to pilot error," Martin said. Sherlock nodded, encouraging him to go on. "If you listened to the CVR, then there's probably some evidence of them passing out, like their sudden silence or whatever, right?"

"Nothing of the sort. They were a generally quiet pair, only speaking when necessary. And—oh, I _see_! There was a burst of chatter while they tried to take the plane down to a safe altitude after the masks had descended. They had enough time to do that, but almost immediately after, they died and the plane went down. They'd lapsed into another silence, presumably because they weren't chatty fellows, but now we know that it was because they were dead by then. Oh, brilliant!"

"So that's it, then? We've figured it out?" Martin asked. Sherlock tutted at him.

"On the contrary, Captain, we've only just begun."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a series of notes that act as story inspiration, or, more specifically, fic inspiration. They range from simple phrases like "Cabinlock!" to bits of dialogue like John's telling Sherlock to just go the fuck to sleep.  
> That one's been there for _months_ and I've finally used it.  
>  Feels good, man.


	4. Chapter 4

When the Portakabin door opened, John smiled and greeted Carolyn, who replied in kind. The MJN matriarch offered a greeting to the consulting detective, who ignored everything in favour of sifting through the possibilities in her mind palace. Arthur walked in after his mother, and John wasn't sure whether to groan or laugh.

"I wouldn't let her see you in that," John said, choosing the third route. "She hates them."

"Aw, really?" Arthur asked, removing the deerstalker from his head. "I thought all detectives wore them! That, and the swooshy coat she always wears! Does she wear it because it's like a cape, because that is _brilliant_."

"Why would—"

"Cause then, she's like a superhero, and her superpower is deduction!" Arthur answered, smiling hugely. John just shook his head and sat closer to his friend.

"I wore the deerstalker _once_ ," Sherlock said, voice crisp. "It was meant to be a disguise!"

"Oh, but then no one would be able to call you and Doctor Watson Hatgirl and Robin!"

"I don't _want_ them to call us that. We are Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, end of story."

Arthur's face fell briefly, prompting John to want to make the man feel better. Truth be told, Sherlock wanted to do the same, but John was better equipped to do so. She wasn't a sociopath, but she still had difficulty connecting to people on an emotional level. Even after the years in hell.

"Tell me, Arthur, how long did you read the blog?" John asked, smiling slightly. Arthur grinned, already back to normal.

"Oh, _years_! I started reading when you did that one case, the one after Study in Pink. What was it? The banker and the Chinese smuggling...?"

"The Blind Banker," John supplied helpfully. Sherlock snorted.

"Yeah, that one. Oh, that was brilliant! A real, proper adventure."

She snorted again.

"Well, ah, I can tell you that it's not always like that. There's always at least couple of days between cases, and a lot of cases are spent waiting. And sometimes...sometimes, it's really, really horrible."

He could have been referencing Soo Lin, or witnessing Frankland's death, or The Fall. Or, of course, The Three Years. Yes, John was right. This life they had chosen wasn't always full of adventure, and sometimes, it was hideous.

She still saw Moriarty pull the trigger. The faces of the men and women she had allowed to die, of the people she had killed herself.

"Do you ever regret it?" she asked, voice pitched low for John alone. He smiled and laid a hand over hers.

"Never," he said. "Not a second."

* * *

"So you mean to tell me that our own beloved _Sir_ has helped you to solve the case already?" Douglas asked, leaning back in his seat. Sherlock leaned forward to ensure that this man would not miss what she had to say.

"Martin is quite clever indeed, Mr Richardson. He is one of my experts for a reason—as one of the best consultants myself, _I_ only consult the best. He has helped me to solve three different cases, and has been invaluable whenever I've been interested in learning anything related to planes." She sat back, smile predatory. "I _do_ hope you all realise just how useful he is, and just how much potential he has."

It was silent for a moment before anyone spoke, and even Sherlock was not expecting what she heard next.

"That is, roughly, what the CEO of Swiss Air said when Martin declined the job," Douglas said softly. Carolyn nodded, actually going so far as to rest a hand on Martin's shoulder.

"We don't _quite_ take this idiot for granted, Miss Holmes," she said fondly. John smiled to hear her use the same sort-of pet name Sherlock herself was quite fond of using.

"Is he finally receiving a salary?" she asked. John raised an eyebrow, and the CEO actually blushed. She clearly hated that she'd had to let Martin go so long without payment. Perhaps that was a point in her favour.

"It's barely a pittance," Carolyn said slowly, "but it's something."

Sherlock nodded succinctly, quietly pleased that the captain was finally getting something for working so hard. While she wasn't entirely sure if he counted as a friend—after all, they rarely spoke about anything personal, and most of the things she knew about him she deduced—she did like him. Alone protects no one, as she had come to understand.

Growing bored, and more than a little restless, she clapped her hands together.

"Yes, well, John and I will have to get to NSY shortly, and, as it turns out, you lot have a plane."

"Miss Holmes, you don't expect me to fly you to London for _free_ do you?" Carolyn demanded, looking ready to bluster and rage.

"Of course not. The British government will be paying for it."

She took a card out of her pocket, grinning at the way the light caught on Mycroft's name. John blinked.

"Sherlock, getting a flight out of Mycroft is just a bit much, don't you think?"

"Not when six of the eight victims were civil servants, John. Do keep up."

"So, so you're telling me—"

"That this case is a matter of national security, and I would highly recommend keeping it under wraps, Captain. Now, how quickly can we get in the air? I'm sure Lestrade and my brother are quite looking forward to our return."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of drug use and suicidal thoughts.  
> Also, it doesn't matter whether Sherlock's male or female—no Sherlock does well with _feelings_.

Sherlock and John stood together on the tarmac, waiting for Carolyn to let them board. John's lips were pursed, his face a study in thought.

"What is it?" Sherlock whispered, scowling. There was a pause before John spoke again.

"I just don't understand," he murmured back. "I mean, okay, I understand that you're not attracted to him, and that you haven't slept with him. I'm just confused—why are you so nice to Martin?"

She laughed a bit, though there wasn't much humour in it.

"You know as well as I do that not every relationship between a man and a woman revolves around romance, or even sex. Take our friendship: I have absolutely no desire to be with you romantically, nor to sleep with you. Same with Lestrade, and with Martin." She sighed, eyes focusing on Martin by the plane. "I'm nice to him because he _needs_ it."

"Is that why you were nice to me when we first met?" John asked. He was smiling, but not teasing. It was a genuine question. She nodded.

"Yes. I knew how alone you were. You were like a...what is it? Kindred soul! You were a kindred soul. You needed some kindness, so I gave it to you. A day later, and we were actual friends. Granted, that doesn't happen with most people, but it did with you, so _there_."

He grinned now and leaned near a bit, just enough to bump shoulders companionably.

"Admit it, you're as sentimental as the rest of us idiots."

She sniffed. "Not at all, John. I simply saw the potential in you."

"You're _sentimental_ ," John laughed, drawing out the word long and thin. She looked down at him, glaring until she simply wasn't. They fell to giggling as they usually did, the laughter coming in sharp bursts and starting off again every time they looked at each other. They were friends because they needed each other, and because that was simply what was meant to happen.

* * *

"Back to the Martin thing, though," John pressed as they buckled their safety belts and prepared for takeoff. "You said that he needs it. Why? The others seem nice enough."

Sherlock nodded.

"Yes, they all admire him, especially Arthur. Arthur thinks the absolute _world_ of the captain. He doesn't need niceness so much anymore, but he did when we first met. He'd been working for this awful, strict airline at the time, and no one even knew his name. He was pompous and arrogant and afraid and so alone. No one liked him at all. I looked at him and saw all of that, the defeated slump of his shoulders, everything. It was— It was painful."

It took a moment for John to realise, but when he did, he sighed and bowed his head.

"You met him when you were using, didn't you?" he whispered. She didn't respond. She didn't have to. "This was before you met Greg and got clean. Oh, _Sherlock_."

She closed her eyes and turned away, mutely hoping that her friend wouldn't hug her. He knew her history, her difficulty with The Habit and the misery that she was before meeting Lestrade. As hurt and miserable as she was when she met John, she was even worse well before. She had been a wretch, a wreck, a crumbling genius with far too much going on in her brain. Martin hadn't quite been like that, but she was able to recognise the sadness that mirrored her own so neatly.

She knew that she had saved his life by making him know that he was useful. She had bolstered him until he recognised that Douglas and Carolyn and Arthur were his friends.

Because he was John Watson and could read her like a picture book, he gave her a gentle (but never saccharine) smile and rested a hand over hers.

She let him.

* * *

When they arrived at Heathrow, she grimaced at the sight of her brother casually leaning against one of his black cars on the tarmac. Sherlock grabbed Martin by the sleeve and dragged him over, everyone else following. John looked slightly amused (he was glad that he wasn't being kidnapped this time), the others looked very confused.

"This is Martin," she said brusquely. "He's helping with the case. He's coming with us."

Mycroft bowed his head in acquiescence.

"Yes, I thought as much." He smiled at Martin like a shark. "It is very good to finally meet you, Captain Crieff."

Martin, who had a vague notion of who Mycroft was and what he did, did an admirable job at neither blanching nor blushing. He just nodded a small greeting at her brother.

"I'd like to go back to the wreckage," Sherlock broke in, finally releasing the pilot. "Now that we know what killed them, it's time to figure out why."

"Of course, little sister. They are waiting for you. Ms Knapp-Shappey, another car will be by in a moment to pick you and the rest of your crew up. I have taken the liberty of making reservations for each of you at The Savoy."

Carolyn stared at him with wide eyes, doing an excellent impression of a confused owl.

"The Savoy," she echoed.

"Indeed. I'm given to understand that it is quite different from your company's usual accommodations, but my sister and I thought that it would be the _least_ we could do, given that we will not be able to relinquish your captain until the case is solved."

"Frankly, Mr Holmes, you may keep him for as long as you need. Tell me, do you know if all of the spa treatments are available in-room?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things that are fun: looking up fancy-pants hotels that I can't afford but Mycroft totally can. The Savoy might just have become a life goal.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock watched Martin as he walked around the wreckage, studied the way he got close to it to take in the details. She dimly wondered if seeing aeroplane wreckage bothered the captain, but if it did, he did an excellent job of ignoring that. It was only too easy to let one's personal life get in the way, as she was well aware. She did, after all, spend three years acting as a vigilante in order to keep three people safe.

"Tell me, Captain, have you noticed anything strange?" she asked, knowing that he probably wouldn't. They had found the cause of death for everyone, and dead pilots mean falling planes.

"After what we talked about, I don't think so," he said, confirming her speculations. "I think I've got an idea of how the gaseous manifold system was altered as well."

"Very good." She steepled her hands, touching the tips of her index fingers to her lips. "What do you think about who might have done it?"

" _What_?" he spluttered.

"I'm not saying that you'll be right, or even close, I'd just like you to try," she insisted, waving a hand about before replacing it. He blinked at her, looking entirely too anxious at the prospect of disappointing her. John had never quite looked like that, but then, he'd never had such issues with his self esteem.

"Are you sure?" he asked. She fought very valiantly against rolling her eyes.

"Yes, go on."

"A-all right. Um, well, wh-whoever did this knows about planes. Not about flying them, but about how they work. More than just than how they fly. Because, uh, well, whoever did this to the gaseous manifold knew what they were doing. So, um, I guess it's either a plane fanatic like me, or someone who builds planes?"

He would have done so much better with more confidence, she was sure of it. She hated when people stated things with a raised inflection at the end, turning surety into uncertainty.

She nodded with approval, careful to keep her face placid and kind. Ish.

"Well done, Captain. Come, let's get you fed; you look like you need it."

She and John walked back to the car. As they walked, Mycroft called out behind them.

"I trust you can be discreet, Captain Crieff. Until this is solved, we are treating it as an act of terrorism. Good day."

* * *

Martin and John ordered good meals on Mycroft's card, while Sherlock could barely be convinced to nibble at the starter John had insisted she'd order. He was ever so insistent that she eat during cases, ever since she fainted that time in the middle of a chase. Really, the man was such a worrywart.

"That Mycroft bloke is a bit scary," Martin admitted between bites of his soup. John laughed.

"Yeah, just be grateful he hasn't kidnapped you."

"K-k- _kidnapped_."

"It's how he does 'private conversations.' It's bloody annoying, but he's really not that scary."

"He's a spy for two distinct organisations, a trained assassin, and the British government," Sherlock muttered, eyes locked on her phone. She was researching the victims, looking for everything she could get her hands on. "Plus, he's the laziest sod you'll ever meet."

"That's comforting," Martin said sarcastically. John smiled kindly. "I wouldn't worry. Sherlock, how're you coming along on the search?"

She growled her frustration. These people were all so dull, every last one of them. They were each so low on the totem pole that killing them only _barely_ counted as terrorism. It could have been a very inept organisation, but she doubted that. Ineptitude didn't mesh with having members in the ranks who understood aeroplanes well enough to alter something no one even paid attention to. She was certain that she could quiz a hundred plane enthusiasts and find perhaps five who were _that_ devoted to the things. Martin was one of them.

"It has to be personal," she snarled, more to her phone than the others at the table. She looked up at John. "Mycroft tells people that he occupies a minor position in the government; these people _actually_ do. I can't _see_ it!"

"You're looking into their personal lives, right?" John asked. She glowered.

"Of course I am. The internet has turned up very little. It's all husbands and wives and kids and tidy houses with tidy gardens. Why would any of them be killed? And by someone willing to kill eight people just to get to one?"

"What if the goal wasn't to just get one of them?" John suggested. "If it was personal, they could have been going for at least two of them. Like, one of them's married and sleeping with the other. Or maybe it's to do with one of the pilots?"

She nodded slowly. "It's a start. Hurry up, you two, I'd like to interview some people before the day is done."

"Oh, we're not going anywhere till you've finished at least two more pieces of shrimp," John threatened. Martin barely contained his smile.

"There isn't _time_ , John!"

"Then you'd best get eating now. The clock's ticking, Sherlock. The murderer could get away with it!" She bit savagely into one of the fried shrimp, glaring at John the whole time.

"Happy?" she snapped.

" _Overjoyed_."


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock wasn't a fan of questioning people, suspects or otherwise, but even she couldn't deny that it was a necessary evil. She was a chameleon, shifting her colours to either frighten or soothe, every pigment precisely calculated to get results. She could go from blustery rage to friendly smiles in milliseconds, leaving everyone but John a bit confused. John would always look at her when she cried or offered sympathy, saying something about the world missing out on a fine actress.

After interviewing seven people in a couple of hours, she was ready to retreat to 221B, and Martin looked more than a little shocked at her abilities.

"Are we just going to drop you off at The Savoy?" John asked as a cab pulled up in front of the three of them. Before Martin could answer, Sherlock shook her head vehemently.

"No, he's helping with the case, John," she said. She glanced at Martin. "You're coming to 221 with us. We'll take you to the hotel well before midnight, but for now, I'd rather like to have two conductors in one place."

"Conductors?" Martin asked John. The good doctor just shrugged, smiling slightly.

When they arrived at 221, Sherlock barreled up the stairs as she as wont to do, leaving John and Martin to follow behind. Mrs Hudson poked her head out, catching them all just before entering the flat.

"The post is on the table by the stairs, you two," she called in that lyrical voice she had. "And don't let her boss that fellow around too much. What's your name, dear?"

Martin cleared his throat, smiling at Mrs Hudson.

"Martin Crieff," he said. She grinned. "Right, well, don't let Sherlock boss you around too much. Shall I come up with tea soon?"

"I thought you weren't our housekeeper," John teased. She made a face.

"I'm _not_ ," she insisted, but she flashed a wide smile at John regardless. In the flat, Sherlock was a blur of paper and string and tape over the mirror. She connected faces and articles and scraps of paper from her notebook, muttering all the while.

"You got a chance to talk to Lestrade, right?" John asked as he ushered Martin inside. Sherlock barely spared a glance.

"Yes, and he gave me the information I needed from his interviews. I still feel like there's something missing, though."

"So what have you found?" Martin asked, settling on the sofa. She wove around the room, pointing to each face in turn and telling them what their friends and family had said. She started with the six civil servants, ending with the pilots.

"Mr Russel's wife did seem a bit peculiar, though," she said, referring to the co-pilot. "According to Lestrade, she spent more time denouncing his character than anything. Strange for a widow."

"Do you think she did it?"

"No. She knows nothing about planes. She could have been involved, but not directly."

John stepped closer and looked at how a string connected Anna Reynolds and pilot Jeffrey Ronson together. There was a tiny note beside the string, saying that they were cousins.

"What kinds of things did Mrs Russel say about her husband?" John asked, looking at the connection between the pilots.

"She called him a drunk gambler, said that he was continually having affairs." She paused. "I think he was having an affair with one of them as well. But which one?"

The three of them stared at the web of thoughts until Mrs Hudson came in bearing tea and snacks. She left with a quiet goodbye, knowing full well what Sherlock was like when she was on the case. But, as the answers were being particularly difficult to come by, she snatched up her violin and rosined her bow and played to ease the thoughts forward.

* * *

John hailed a cab for Martin at a quarter to eleven, smiling and thanking him for his help and saying inane things like, "Hope to see you tomorrow."

Sherlock swept through another melody as she stalked away from the window, thinking as the bow breezed over the strings. Russel was having an affair, likely with one of the passengers. Reynolds and Ronson were related, and all of the civil servants knew each other outside of work, though barely. She would need to talk to the Russel widow herself; she was nearly positive that the woman had hired or found someone to sabotage the plane.

Until then, she could play her violin and think.


	8. Chapter 8

At seven in the morning, Sherlock bounded up the stairs to John's room, only barely restraining herself from shouting at him the whole way there. As someone well versed in the ways of John Watson, she knew that his alarm was set to go off at half till, and that was much too late.

"John, you've half an hour to get dressed and showered and fed or I'm leaving without you," she said, diving into his wardrobe to pull out some suitable clothes, consciously avoiding the jumpers she loved to make fun of.

He rose groggily, scrubbing his hand over his eyes.

"What time is it, Sherlock?" he groaned, sitting up and looking just so rumpled.

"Seven. I have an interview with Mrs Russel, finally, and it's in forty-five minutes, so _hurry_."

She swanned out of his room again, down to where her third cup of coffee was waiting. As she stirred the sugar into her coffee, she rang Martin.

"Hullo?" he said over the line, sounding just as tired as the doctor above her.

"John and I are leaving in half an hour," she told him. "We will be at the kerb of The Savoy in forty minutes; be there, waiting, or I'll have Mycroft send one of his cars."

"Good morning to you too, Sherlock."

" _Be there_."

She rang off and slipped her phone back into her pocket, pacing the kitchen, mind already racing. She had a good idea of what was happening now. She'd done a bit of research into Mrs Russel, finding a brother who built planes for a living. It was always the brother, wasn't it? Now, she just had to find out who the late Mr Russel was seeing on the side, get the vindictive Mrs Russel to admit to having him killed, and find enough evidence to pin the brother on murder charges. She was fairly certain that she could even get him for an act of terrorism or some such thing, for Queen and Country.

That thought didn't appeal too much, though; Mycroft was continually threatening her with damehood, just to add a bit more shining glory to the family.

John finally wandered into the kitchen, fifteen minutes to spare, hair still wet from his shower.

"Have you found something new?" he asked as he rifled through the fridge for food. Fortunately for him, Sherlock had been too busy to do any experiments, so everything in the fridge was actually edible. It was tediously dull.

She relayed her findings to him, and he nodded in agreement when she griped about the brother always being the culprit.

"And we'll be picking up Martin on the way," she said as she finished her coffee. John smiled.

"That's good." He looked up. "It's so weird to see you so pleased to be around another person."

She raised an eyebrow. "I'm not nearly as antisocial as you and everyone else seems to think, John."

"No, that's not what I meant. I mean, you're very fond of very few people. Me, Greg, Mrs Hudson, Molly. You're selective, that's all. I'm just surprised, I guess."

"What makes you think I'm fond of him?"

John shrugged. "A lot of things, I suppose. You said you've always been nice to him because he needed it—you don't usually care. And you keep calling him Captain around others, which seems to bolster his confidence. You checked up on him with Ms Knapp-Shappey, making sure they were taking proper care of him. You're fond of him."

"He's proven to be clever. I like clever," she said slowly. John grinned.

"Yes, and you are sentimental as the rest of us. The sooner you admit it, the better."

"Never."

* * *

"So you've found a suspect?" Martin asked as the cab drove away from the hotel. "That's great!"

"Hardly," Sherlock scoffed. "She's sulking because the suspect is too _obvious_ for her tastes—she's been complaining all morning," John explained unhelpfully. She rolled her eyes and returned her focus to her phone.

When they arrived at the Russel residence, Sherlock dashed out of the cab, leaving John to pay the fare, he and Martin followed at a distance, and John winced slightly when he noticed that she'd already been let in. Sherlock was smiling kindly at the widow, who wasn't wearing a scrap of black and seemed quite pleased despite the fact she'd lost her husband just days before. She offered the three of them tea, and they each agreed to it.

"What's your plan?" Martin whispered, sitting in the easy chair that was Mr Russel's favourite, judging by the wear pattern. John sat beside Sherlock on the sofa.

"Oh, it's easy: I'm going to talk to her, John is going to help when needed, and you are going to be _quiet_."

As Sherlock hissed the last word, Mrs Russel came in from the kitchen, bearing a tray laden with tea things. As she'd only been in the kitchen a moment, it was clear that she had prepared all of this beforehand.

While a gentle demeanour often got good results, Sherlock needed a saw, not a chisel. She leaned forward, eyes boring into the other woman, vivisecting her. Mrs Russel visibly flinched.

"Why did you go to your brother to kill your husband?" she asked sharply.

Anyone with a brain might have laughed, or denied it, or at least have the decency to look shocked at such an accusation. Mrs Russel, however, clearly lacked a brain. She slouched forward, teacup tilting precariously, defeat written on every line in her face.

"How did you know?"

The consulting detective smiled, more a showing of teeth than anything.

"Because," she purred, "I'm Sherlock Holmes."


	9. Chapter 9

"My brother and I are very close," Mrs Russel said slowly, carefully, eyes dimly focused on something that only she could see. "He's my big brother, and he's always been good to me. I'd honestly call him my best friend. I talk to him more than I do my friends. And when I first noticed that Cam was cheating on me, I told my brother. He was just so mad..."

"When was this?" Sherlock asked, steepling her hands in thought.

"About a year ago. He was seeing this young little thing, Anna Sholt."

Anna Sholt was one of the victims, and things were beginning to become _very_ clear to Sherlock.

"So you and your brother planned for a way to kill your husband," she said, clarifying.

"Shakespeare would be proud," Martin muttered, braving the caustic look shot his way by the detective. Though, to be fair, there was something particularly old-fashioned about having one's brother kill one's unfaithful lover or husband. It certainly lacked elegance, though the ultimate execution of the act was everything Sherlock could have dreamed of.

"But why go to all that effort to sabotage the plane?" John asked. "I mean, what if she'd never flown on his plane? It seems like a lot of effort just for a small chance."

Mrs Russel sighed deeply.

"It was meant to just be Cam," she said slowly, closing his eyes. "He often took the plane for flights on his own." She looked up, eyes flashing sharply. "It was only ever meant to be Cam."

Sherlock practically sneered at the woman.

"Due to your poor planning, you and your brother are now looking at eight murder charges, as well as whatever the British Government decides to give you for your poor little act of terrorism," she said, voice low and lethal. "Your heart should never rule your head."

"But I didn't do anything!" Mrs Russel cried, jumping to her feet in a frenzy. "It was all Bill, he did it! He decided that he should do it, and he _did_ it!"

"Did you attempt to stop him?"

The widow paused before fairly shrieking out, "Yes! Yes, of course I did! I'm not a monster!"

"Liar," Sherlock said softly. She stood up, smoothing down the front of her dress. "If you'll excuse us, we've a meeting with the Detective Inspector. Thanks for the tea. Martin, John, come along."

With that, she swept out of the house, leaving the widow screaming and sobbing in her wake.

* * *

Of course, Sherlock was lying through her teeth about going to meet Lestrade. They were actually heading to Heathrow, where Martin's plane waited. With a call made to Mycroft, using the most saccharine voice she could manage, Sherlock got them immediate clearance. They were in the air within half an hour of their interview.

"Why are we going to Bristol?" Martin called from the flight deck shortly after takeoff.

"That's where the brother lives, obviously," she snapped. He let the matter drop.

They landed after a tremendously short flight, and Sherlock was pleased to discover that there was a cab already waiting for them. She gave the address of a small restaurant she actually liked, and they were off. They had a bit of time to kill while Lestrade contacted the local authorities. She could only hope that he wouldn't try to make a run for it; she doubted the captain could keep up.

* * *

An hour later, with two bellies contentedly full, the three of them headed to the residence of one William Cathart. She'd gotten a text just ten minutes prior, Lestrade telling her that the police were on the way and please don't get shot. She scoffed at the idea—someone who killed so remotely was unlikely to have a gun.

She knocked on the door, John and Martin standing off to the side, and smiled broadly at the man who answered it. He looked distressingly normal, with his dishwater hair and clean-shaven face.

"Can I help you?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at the strange, pretty woman standing on his doorstep. She grinned at him.

"I'm here on behalf of your sister," she said, lowering her voice to a register she knew men responded to quite positively. She was not afraid to use what John called her "womanly wiles." He raised an eyebrow.

"What about her?" he asked, suddenly gruff. She took that moment to drop the simpering thing, adopting a look that made her look a bit like a snake. She could strike fear into his heart with just a few carefully placed verbal blows.

"You know her husband died recently, don't you?" she asked. Fear flickered in his eyes at that.

" _Shit_ ," he muttered. Distantly, she heard sirens.

He pushed past her and took off running.

"Damn," she grumbled, hitting the ground at a run behind him. She did _so_ love the chase.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh, action.

John sighed, watching his flatmate tear after the suspect. He was just grateful she wasn't wearing high heels like that one time. Ironically, though, _he_ was the one to twist his ankle that afternoon. Regardless of footwear choices, he told Martin to stay there, to get the police caught up, and _just don't go anywhere, I don't need to run after you too_. He then did as he did best, pearling after Sherlock and hoping that she wouldn't get hurt.

He soon caught up to her, powerful runner that he was when trying to catch up rather than keep up. They fell into their familiar rhythm, with Sherlock somehow knowing every twist and turn of Bristol (clearly that was a skill that extended beyond her beloved London) and John right at her side. They leapt over buildings, darted through alleyways, narrowly avoided getting run over more times than the good doctor really cared for.

But, as well as Sherlock knew Bristol, Cathart knew them better. No matter what strange tangle of streets the pair took, they always _just_ missed Cathart, and John was beginning to hate him quite a lot, really.

They ditched into a small alcove between a couple of buildings, breathing hard.

"We can't catch him," John fairly panted. Sherlock just closed her eyes, likely in annoyance as she was a bit too winded to properly speak. She tilted her head to the side, indicating the little cafe they were resting beside.

"Break," she offered. John nodded and followed, as always.

* * *

"So now, he knows we're after him, and the police as well," Sherlock said softly once she'd gotten some water into her system and some air into her lungs. "He took off, obviously looking for somewhere safe to hide for a while."

"God, that could be anywhere," John groaned. He didn't have nearly the same grasp of the city his partner did, so he couldn't possibly think of where Cathart might head to lie low for a while. Although...

"The airfield," he said suddenly. Sherlock looked up and grinned.

"My thoughts exactly." She took a long pull of her water, got to her feet, and nodded toward the door. "Ready when you are."

* * *

They took a cab to the airfield, as they weren't fools. Though she'd never willingly admit it, Sherlock was fairly fatigued from their mad dash. She leapt out of the cab, leaving John to pay while she sought out the killer. He was dull and bland and surprisingly clever, but even the most shocking of people were predictable. Not always, as she had learned time and again from Moriarty, but more often than not. It was really just a matter of reading a person correctly, and she had done so with Cathart.

She crept through the airfield, consciously ignoring everyone who looked her way. As Cathart was little more than manual labour, he obviously didn't have an office, and he wouldn't try to hunker down in the workshop on his day off. No, he'd make for a hangar and hide there. Almost definitely under a plane he built.

There as a fairly large collection of hangars scattered about the airfield, but only one had its side door open. It was a stupid move, but could be forgiven; Mr Cathart had clearly been in a hurry.

She slunk though the door, keeping close to the shadowed wall. A moment later, John followed, arm brushing hers in the dark. They didn't dare speak, since voices would carry only too well, and they wanted that element of surprise.

In the pool of sunlight through the open door, Sherlock spied the light switch. She gestured to John, holding up three fingers. He nodded in understanding.

She folded a finger into her hand, leaving two, counting down.

Folded in the next, and that was their cue. She threw the lights, John slammed the door and drew his gun.

"Come out now, Mr Cathart," Sherlock called, a faintly lilting note in her voice. "It will go easier for you if you bring yourself to custody, rather than wait for the police."

As she spoke, John took her proffered phone and shot off a text to Martin, telling him where they were. She estimated thirteen minutes for the police to arrive.

Cathart, predictably, stayed silent.

Sherlock sighed. She was already bored of Bristol and wanted to go home, and she couldn't until he was proven to be guilty.

"Mr Cathart, I do _highly_ suggest that you come out _now_. Your sister has already ratted you out; now all that's left is for you to admit to sabotaging Mr Russel's plane and killing eight people. You might even get off the terrorism charges if you're very lucky."

There was another silent pause before they heard a shuffle and Cathart pulled himself out from underneath a small aeroplane. He looked terrified.

"Nobody said anything about terrorism," he choked out, visibly shaking. "I-it was only s'posed to be Cam, I'm no terrorist, _please_."

Sherlock was not completely convinced. Something Martin had said came back, and she raised an eyebrow.

"If it was only meant to be Mr Russel, then why did you alter the gaseous manifold? I'm given to believe that affects the whole plane, while the other system is separated for pilots and passengers. Remind me of its name, will you?"

"The, the c-chemical oxygen operator," he gasped. She smiled.

"Yes, that's it. So why didn't you alter that instead?"

He shook his head so vehemently that she felt sympathetically dizzy.

"I didn't mean to kill everyone else, only Cam. Only ever Cam..."

She stared at the man, and he cowered against the plane. She was just playing for time, waiting for the police to find them and take Cathart into custody.

"You see, the trouble with that, Mr Cathart, is that I don't believe you," she said lightly. John shot her a warning glance, clearly bothered by her tone of voice. She carried on. "How did you know Miss Sholt would be on the flight?"

He blinked, licked his lips, looked cornered.

"I didn't," he said, though his voice lacked the conviction from before. She shook her head softly.

"You were sleeping with her, weren't you?"

"I—"

"And when your sister came to you with the name of the woman _her_ husband was seeing, you saw red and planned out this fairly elaborate murder scheme. Though you were never anything other than cordial to poor Anna, I'd imagine, and recommended your brother-in-law's company to fly her and her group to their meeting. You hadn't intended to kill six civil servants, granted, but you did wish to murder your ex-lover and _her_ lover."

His face grew steely and sharp and he lunged, slashing out at Sherlock with a small knife he'd pulled from his pocket. She sidestepped him easily, using his momentum to pin his front against the side of the plan. She held him firmly in place, her height an advantage, while John glowered at the fellow.

Almost immediately after the scuffle, two officers ran into the hangar, barely sparing a glance for John as they took in the sight of a skinny twig of a woman holding down a raging man with a bloodied nose.

The rest of the team entered and Cathart was taken away, screaming and bellowing and going red in the face. The case was closed.


	11. Chapter 11

Martin was waiting for the consultants beside a police car, practically wringing his hands in his anxiety. He grinned when they stood beside him.

"I saw them taking him out in cuffs," Martin told then with that large smile. Even Sherlock was not immune to such an exuberant look. John's face nearly matched Martin's.

"He admitted to the crime as well," Sherlock said, sagging gratefully against the side of the police car. "I'm glad—I was just beginning to miss London."

John looked at his watch and let his eyebrows climb toward his hairline. "We've been gone three hours, Sherlock."

"Three hours too many, John." Then they just looked at each other and beamed.

* * *

"Right, you've solved the case and it's too early to go get takeaway and inflict a Jeremy Kyle-based coma upon ourselves," John said once the plane touched down in Heathrow and Martin had returned to the cabin. "I say you call up that crew of yours and we get lunch at the pub. Sherlock's treat."

Sherlock wanted to grumble and insist that she was cut of too decent a cloth to go into a pub, but Martin just looked so _excited_ that she just sighed and frowned a bit less harshly.

"If you can promise me that you won't invite Mycroft, then I'll go," she said darkly. John just laughed.

* * *

If she was being really, truly, properly honest with herself, it was nice sitting around a table with John and Martin and the rest of the MJN crew. Even Lestrade had tagged along, pleased with Sherlock for finding the killer as always.

Lestrade got along famously with Douglas and Martin, and found Arthur hilarious. Of course, as he was two pints in, he thought most things were hilarious. Carolyn, Martin, John, and Lestrade all had beers and plates of greasy pub food in front of them, laughing at just about everything, pleased with the world. Arthur drank pineapple juice and grinned at everyone at the table, but most of his exalted smiles were reserved for his daring skipper. Douglas had a glass of tonic water garnished with a lime. That was interesting.

"How long?" she asked softly as the rest of the table was regaled by Martin's story. One side of Douglas's mouth lifted in a smirk.

"Twelve years," he said. He nodded to her bared arms, the scars in the crooks of her elbow. "You?"

Her smile was just dark, tinged by haunted, hunted memories and a persistent itch in her veins while she was on the run. She remembered the night she cornered the drug lord, the way she wavered as he pleaded for his life, offering two pounds of cocaine to survive.

She shot him through the head, point-blank range.

"Just over eight years."

He raised his glass. "To keeping demons at bay."

She clinked her ale against his tonic and lime and found herself smiling at this strange new brother-in-arms.

"Is it _always_ like that Miss Holmes?" Arthur asked out of nowhere, bringing her attention to the larger conversation at the other end of the table. Martin was flushed and beaming, and John was trying to catch the attention of a passing waitress. She smiled more contentedly, swiped a chip from John's plate.

"Sometimes," she said. She could have elaborated on the more horrible cases, as she had days before, but she smiled like a sentimental fool instead. "Sometimes, though, it's better than this."

Those cases where she and John saved lives rather than finding killers were what kept her going, really. She held them close and counted them all when things got too bleak and the body count grew to high. She remembered the thank-yous and the tearful smiles and the hugs like vises she really only mostly hated.

More than that, though, people like Arthur kept her mostly sane. For every vicious nay-sayer, there were ten loyal fans telling her that she was amazing. For every vile slur tossed her way, there was one John Watson smiling at her side and saying that she was wonderful, and that she was an idiot. It was the kind of sentimentality she hated, but she thrived on it, even if she'd never admit that to herself.

"You ready to head home?" John asked after a while, nudging her with his elbow. She found herself smiling.

"I think so."

The MJN crew and token DI heard the little exchange, and soon everyone was shuffling out of the pub, some a bit closer to outright _drunk_ than was really socially acceptable at that hour. She wasn't surprised when Arthur crushed her in a hug, nor when Carolyn offered a slightly tipsy hug of her own. She was surprised when Martin, courage bolstered with drink, threw his skinny arms around her and gave her a hug as well.

"It's been fun, Sherlock," he said when he let her go, smiling broadly.

"Yes, do let _Sir_ know next time you need him to help you solve a murder," Douglas said, his own smile a bit wry. He patted her on the arm and slipped a scrap of paper bearing his mobile number into her palm.

"Douglas, I'm flattered, but—"

He snorted, and she looked up abruptly.

"Sorry, Miss Holmes, but you're not _quite_ my type," he laughed. "No, that's for... Well, if you ever need someone to talk to about...what we talked about... You have my number."

She bowed her head, suddenly extraordinarily grateful to this self-assured Sky God and the old addiction of his own.

"Thank you."

And with that, the little airline climbed into a cab and Lestrade got into his own car and John and Sherlock walked in the direction of Baker Street.

"What was that about?" John asked as they passed an infinite supply of people with their stories and favourite foods and worst fears. She tucked the lifeline into the pocket of her coat, neatened the line of her scarf, and looped her arm through the good doctor's.

"I'm not sure, but I think I've made a new friend."

And that was enough. They walked the rest of the way in companionable quiet and it was good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> True story: I really enjoyed writing this. I actually love this 'verse a bit, so you might do well to expect more in the future, maybe-possibly.


End file.
